


Sacrifice

by Darksidekelz



Category: Transformers: Armada
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cultists, Gen, Origin Story, Ritual Sacrifice, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8780125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: Sideways had been a loser bot with a dead-end life, destined to die alone with no accomplishments to his name.  He just hadn't thought death would come for him so soon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a prequel for the Armada AU that I might someday write, where everything is the same, unless I like something else better. Incidentally, Energon and Cybertron (especially Cybertron) do not apply here.

The job was a means to an end. 

That was what Sideways told himself day after day.  When he woke up in the morning, dreading the upcoming drudgery, working his poor frame to the core, ungrateful customers – the creepers, the swindlers, the complainers.  And likewise, before the fell into a deep recharge at night, broken both body and soul.  He hated the job – hated making deliveries for _Flagons on the Fly_.  But even Two-Wheelers had to eat, and there weren't exactly plentiful opportunities when you were so small and unremarkable as he was.

The job was his life, but Sideways was optimistic.  Someday, he'd rise above his station – prove to the world that he was more than just some pathetic little delivery bot, fit to be looked down upon by the rest of the world.  He was smart.  He was brave.  All he needed was an opportunity to prove himself, an opportunity that would surely come any day now.  He'd already spent the first twenty years of his life being treated like the scrap his position entailed; karma would see him breaking free any day now.

It was perhaps a bit _too_ idealistic, true, but it was that, or face the prospect of being trapped in this miserable, thankless position for the rest of his life.  And _that_ thought was unacceptable.

But poor Sideways didn't know that his worst nightmare would soon be his reality. 

He was on delivery again, zipping through the back alleys for extra speed.  Customers could get cranky when their engex wasn't delivered faster than was physically possible.  Sideways had gotten to know the side streets and scenic roots of Iacon _very_ well as a result, doing everything in his power to keep the customer satisfied.  After all, a happy customer meant he could go back to the factory at the end of the day, all his pieces intact, collect his pay, and return home, with full tanks, all to do it again the next day.  Sometimes he wondered what would happen to him if he allowed the alternative.

He arrived at his current target, a somewhat isolated cluster of luxurious condos on the outskirts of District Three.  Much to his surprise, the front gate that barred the community from the public, swung open upon his arrival.  There must have been cameras; his customer must have seen him.  Feeling suddenly nervous that his presence was known, he transformed back to root mode, effortlessly catching the cases of energon as they flew from his alt mode's seat, and scurried up to the front door.  Again, it slid open before him.  He'd never admit it, but this automation was beginning to creep him out.

At least he didn't have to interact with anyone.  With any luck, the money would be waiting at his arrival and he could leave the engex by the door, and hurry on home without having to deal with any of the wealthy snobs who so clearly lived here.

Fat chance.

The closed door awaited him at the end of the hallway, innocuous as anything, and yet, Sideways got a sense of dread looking at it.  For whatever reason, the last place he wanted to be right now was in this hallway, drawing closer, with his cases tucked away under his arm.  But a job was a job.   He knocked at the door, which slid open at the first hit.

A tall mech appeared in its frame, his face obscured by a mask, his helm framed by decorative horns. 

"We've been expecting you," he said in a deep, ominous voice.

One clawed hand reached out, grabbing Sideways by the handlebars that framed his own head, and effortlessly steered the struggling two-wheeler into the foreboding room beyond.

"What the – let go of me!  Help, somebody!"

A second hand slapped over his mouth, and that was it; Sideways was trapped in this monster's clutches.

The next thing he knew, he was being wrestled into a dark room, cases of energon smashed on the floor where he'd dropped them.  Six other bots waited in the pit beyond, all wearing similar masks, gathered in a half-circle, laughing and chanting as the writhing Sideways was forced down onto a recharge slab.  Two more bots leapt in to help the first shackle his limbs to the slab; struggle as he might, he wasn't going anywhere.  Once secured, the first slapped him across the face for good measure.  He stopped struggling.

The world around him was spinning, his tanks churned in warning, but Sideways could do nothing to address them.  He couldn't speak or move, paralyzed with agonizing dread as he was.  He was going to die.  Slag it all, he was going to die, having only ever known the life of a delivery-bot.  He was going to die young, without ever knowing love, intimate touch, happiness.  _He was going to die._

"Brothers, we have awaited this night for so very long, but finally, it is here!  Led by a vision of our lord and master, the almighty Unicron!  With thanks be to the artifact which brought us this knowledge!"  From the corner of his eye, Sideways could _just_ make out what appeared to be a tiny, Cybertronian (some kind of doll?) sitting unresponsive on a nearby shelf.  Though it was clearly not alive, Sideways couldn't help but feel that its eyes were watching him.  "We have performed the rituals – drank the fuel, cleansed our frames and souls; we have gathered and distributed the lifeblood of Luna 1 across the planet, and injected it into its very core.  For half a century, we have done all that was requested of us, and now, we seal the pact with a sacrifice – now, we bring the almighty Unicron into this world!  All hail Unicron!"

"All hail Unicron!" the other cultists echoed.

What in the Pit _was_ all of this?!  These people were insane, and he was going to _die_ for their mad whims!  It wasn't _fair!_ He made a sad, strangled gurgle deep in his vocaliser, which had the added effect of drawing the attention of the leader of the bunch.

"I think our sacrifice grows impatient.  Let's get started."

The leader pulled an energy saber from his subspace, and held it high in the air.  "Oh great Unicron," he began, "hear us, your loyal followers.  See our deeds, and grant us your blessing."

Sideways struggled against his shackles.  Why were they doing this?! 

The first slice of the knife cut into his chest, just over his spark chamber, and he shrieked.  "Stop!  No, please stop!"  His begging only seemed to egg on the cultists.  He drew the knife downwards, slicing a path over Sideways's spark.

"We have gathered the sacrifices, at your whim, as heard by the whispers of your envoy.  Our only desire is your waking, that we may see your presence alight our world."

He made another slice, just opposite the first, and then a third and a fourth, until the plating that protected his spark had been sliced away, leaving him bare to the world.  He no longer had the mental wherewithal for words.  He was too busy screaming, whimpering, thrashing as best as he could in his restraints. 

A picture formed in his mind, him far away, driving across the Acid Wastes – which he'd seen on holocaster programs time and again.  They truly were beautiful.  Or him, commanding a ship, exploring the vast reaches of space for scientific discovery.  He owned the delivery business that had made his life hell, and instead devoted himself to creating a safe place to work.  And then, in the most powerful fantasy of all, he found himself with another bot, faceless – a Speedster, perhaps?  Or a Seeker?  Together, sharing a berth, entwined in one another's arms, bodies interlocked in a moment of passion that Sideways would never live to see.

He wanted it all.  And yet he would die here, a nobody, a nothing.

The cultists continued their chanting, their knives peeled away his plating, dug into his wires with a ritualistic precision, leaving no joint untouched.  It was almost intimate in a supremely fucked up way.  It didn't hurt – not anymore.  He suspected he'd either gone numb from the shock of it all, or someone had cut his pain sensors.  Instead, he watched, as his once-proud frame was made into a twisted, perverted mockery of itself.  Why couldn’t they just let him die already?

"It is, with this sacrifice, that we call out to you, awaken you, summon you back to the world which is rightfully yours.  Let our knife be your hands, let our wills belong to you.  Thy will be done."

One sharp thrust, and the knife was embedded deep in Sideways's spark.  His frame arched from the sudden jolt of energy, as though to greet that crude implement of his torture, already covered in his own fluids.  And then, it was over, or it should have been.  His body fell limp against the slab, the light behind his optics faded, and his spark – once burning with life, guttered, dispersed into nothing. 

And yet, for whatever reason, consciousness remained his.

"Did it work?" one of the cultists said after a long moment.

"I – I don't know.  Maybe?"

"I don't feel any different.  Maybe look outside.  Does it look any different?"

He heard the soft tinkling of delicate tin sheets rustling against one another, and then, "No.  Everything is as it was before."

Another movement, away from his slab, and then something being lifted from a shelf.  The doll?

"Why didn't it work?!  You _told_ us this would work!  You told us this would revive Unicron.  Well, where is he?"  Shaking.  The mech was shaking the doll.  What a strange thing to do.  "Why don't you _answer me?!"_

_"Your life is ended."_

A whisper.  Much closer than the voices of the cultists.

_"Are you angry?"_

"Put the Minicon down.  It's not alive.  It's just a broken tool."  More shuffling.  Somebody sitting down.  "I can't believe we fell for it."

_"I am."_

"Guys.  If – if Unicron's not actually back – if it didn't work, then that means – that means we just –"

"Killed some kid for no reason.  Yeah, we got that."

"Oh Primus.  What have we done?"

More clattering, the sound of shaking again, this time, more substantial.  "Show some spinal strut!  We all agreed to this!  We can't afford to cry because of some small mistake like this."

_"Do you want to make them pay?"_

Metal on metal – a heavy blow.  "Don't tell me not to be upset!  We have blood on our hands now!"  Shaking, clattering armor.  "We're in trouble.  They'll lock us away.  All the things I've never done!  I'm too young to go to jail!"

_" . . . I do."_

Fire shot down his fuel lines, burning him up from the inside, reigniting his broken frame, manifesting as a thick, black sludge, which breathed a dark unlife into him.  It felt gross, _wrong_ , but he didn't care.  He wasn't ready to die yet.  He'd barely begun to live.  And here were his murderers, bickering amongst themselves without a real care for the sins they'd just committed.

Sideways was angry, and he would survive long enough to avenge himself, even if he had to sell his soul to Unicron in order to do so.  Against the table, his fingers began to twitch, tattered wiring knitting itself back to optimum condition. 

"Shut up, the lot of you," snapped another voice.  "So it didn't work.  Big deal.  We find out what's wrong, fix it, and try again."

Optics shot online, allowing him to see the dark room in full clarity.  The seven cultists stood around him, in various states of distress.  One of them was holding that doll (the _Minicon_ ) from before; it hung limply in his arms.  Though it made no movement, said no words, though its back was turned to him, he could sense that it was watching him.  It was alive? 

Yes.  Minicons were alive, whatever a 'Minicon' was.  It was a knowledge granted to him with his revival.  But that wasn't all.

"No need for that, fellas," he growled out.  His voice was unchanged, and yet somehow, it sounded deeper, passionless, and despite his vulnerable position, threatening.  These were not sounds he ever thought himself capable of making.

As one, all seven of the cultists turned to face him.  Now the Minicon's pink eyes _were_ on him, watching with an understanding he'd never imagined possible from such a soulless creature.

"Looks like your little ritual wasn't quite so useless after all."

"It worked!" the nearest cultist exclaimed.

"No," another one growled.  Sideways was fairly certain it was the same mech that had done the slicing.  "No, this isn't right!  He was supposed to awaken!  He was supposed to come to _us_ , not some useless little two-wheeler delivery bot!"

"I don't believe that was part of the deal, Crosswise."  The mech's optics widened at the comment.

"How do you know my –"

"I know more than just your name."  There were shackles binding Sideways to the slab.  He was tired of them; how was he supposed to have a proper conversation while horizontal?  With scarcely a thought, his hands and feet began to fade – to a staticky grey, and trickled right through the shackles, leaving Sideways a free mech at last.  But why stop there?  He was quite enjoying the horror show.  Whatever this newfound power was, it was a thrill to utilize.

He didn't touch the slab; the thing was cursed and horrific and he never wanted to see it again.  Rather, he floated above it, twisting in the air until he was right-side up, his feet dangling just above the ground, his frame whole and perfect as the day he was forged.  The cultists around him were backing away now, towards the door, the windows, and an unlucky few into corners.

It made no difference.

"No, please, stay.  You went through all the trouble to bring me here.  Even procured me a lovely little host, though what was that you called me?   'Some useless little two-wheeler delivery bot?'  I'd have thought you'd choose for your supreme god a frame that you could respect.  But I'll make do.  There's more to this frame than I think you realize."

Crosswise stepped forward, hesitantly.  "U-Unicron?"

"No.  Sideways."  A flick of his hand sent the stupid mook flying into the wall, with enough force to shatter it.  Nobody else moved.  "Though I won't deny that there's a bit of Unicron in here."  He gave the air a great shove, and the three bots by the window fell backwards, shattering the glass and falling to the ground below.  "Well, more than a bit."

Another bot stepped forward, Rook appeared to be his name; how nice it was to just know these things.  But this bot seemed to have a mission, and that mission was deference.  He fell to the floor, bowing beneath Sideways's feet.

"Great Unicron, we are unworthy!"

He was growing tired of these clueless cultists.  He was _dead_ , and all they cared about was their awakened leader.  Why did they even follow him?  Did they think reviving the long-fallen dark god would grant them wealth?  Power?  Fame?  Perhaps Unicron would have shown them favor in another life.  A life wherein they hadn't brutally murdered his current host and herald.

"You're right.  You are."

And that was when the floor fell from the room, sending everything above crashing down below.

Sideways allowed himself to fall last, floating slowly to the rubble below, and the pathetic cultists trapped within it.  "What a lovely sight."

He wanted to kill them, to strip them of each and every plate, snip each wire, remove each component – to do to them what they did unto him.  But the voice in his head, the power that had overtaken him, that allowed him the freedom to be the bot he had always longed to be, held him back.

_"I have use for them yet."_

That sounded ominous.  Of course it was, he was playing host to _Unicron_ , the fragging chaos bringer.  Of _course_ he would be up to no good.  And the cultists were _fools_ for bringing him here!  Pit, Sideways certainly never would have contemplated serving him until today.  But Unicron had offered him the one thing he could not refuse.

Had it been the same with the cultists?  Was _he_ the same as the cultists?

Who fucking cared?

_"Then lead the way."_

He backed off, and allowed Unicron full control of his body, and the deity jumped on the opportunity to explore the extent of what he could put one useless, Two-Wheeler frame through without destroying it.  He lifted himself higher, growing as large as he could in the enclosed space, and waved his arms, bringing the cultists, some struggling, into the air.

_"Take your pick, Herald.  Any two."_

It was pointless to ask what for.  Unicron was being generous, and though Sideways wanted all of them to die in equal measure, he did have one or two preferences for a particularly nasty demise, if that was indeed what Unicron had in mind.

He was allowed enough control to turn his optics over the cultists in the air.  The first choice was obvious.  The one who'd held the knife, who'd cut him to ribbons, stolen his life, was hoisted up higher than the others.

_"This one."_

The second choice was more difficult.  Only that first cultist had done much to make an impression.  From there, he would have to settle.  His eyes fell on another mech – this one, the one who had bowed before him, named himself unworthy – the one who felt the barest scrap of remorse.  What a joke.

_"And this one."_

_"A wise choice, little one."_

"W-what are you doing?!" shrieked the first.  Unicron had forced a hot jolt of energy into the mech's frame, which twisted and writhed beneath it.  The second mech joined him not long after – their screams splitting the air, leaving their companions squirming in horrified anticipation.

Soon, the two mechs began to change – their frames compressed, shrank.  All transformation kibble, paint, distinguishing features – their very _sparks,_ were ripped away, leaving behind two limp creatures, barely any different than the doll Sideways had seen earlier.  Was this how Minicons were made?

_"Not typically, my Herald.  These ones are different.  They are yours.  Rook – the dark angel, and Crosswise – the pale devil.  Together, they are Mirror – my gift to you."_

His hands waved before him again, and the two Minicons transformed into one.

_"Light or darkness.  Take your pick."_

_"I'm feeling a little devilish right now myself."_

On  command, the two underwent one more transformation, this time into a helm – pale, obscuring, and framed by two massive, wicked horns.  Another thought had it seating itself on his head, fitting him perfectly, as though he had always been meant to wear something like it.  He'd never had much of a face before, but this?  This granted him everything!  He had eyes, pink, with the power of Unicron.  And behind the mask, a fully-functioning _mouth_!  Much better than the pathetic excuse for one he'd had before.  Never had he imagined that something so simple could fill him with such joy.  Also, his more intimidating appearance was certainly striking fear into the sparks of the cultists, which was a plus.

_"Mirror is your life force.  Your spark in the absence of light.  Do look after it."_

Sideways didn't know exactly what the meaning behind those words was, but he would not question it.  Unicron had seen fit to give him a gift, had shown him a generosity he had no obligation to exhibit.  Sideways was grateful to accept it.

 _"What about the rest of them_?"

Unicron answered by waving Sideways's arms once more, causing the remaining cultists to twist and warp, much like the others had, until they too were unmoving, doll-like Minicons.  Despite the justice that had just been so rightly served, Sideways did not feel incredibly satisfied.  The cultists were dead. 

What did it matter?  He was too.

Unicron had fulfilled whatever purpose he had intended.  Still wearing Sideways's body, he shrank down to his default size, and allowed him to collapse gently to the floor, seating him on an overturned stone.

_"Well, wasn't that fun?"_

Was it?  No.  It was murder.  It had felt nice at the time, but now he just felt cold and bitter.  And anxious.  He could not see Unicron, but he felt him, within his mind, his non-existent spark, dark whispers poisoning him with every second that passed by.

"What happens to me now?" he asked, aloud.  It felt more natural, somehow.  "You transformed those worshippers of yours into . . . Minicons, I guess.  Does that mean that you're done with me?  Am I going to die?"

Unicron seemed to laugh, though if he was amused, he certainly didn't feel it.  "I am far from through with you yet."

Sideways didn't know whether that knowledge relieved him or not.  He kept listening.

_"Ages ago, before you parasites came to dwell on this world, I fought against my wretched brother, Primus.  I lost.  And with the final blow, he shattered me into hundreds of pieces, condemning me to an eternal slumber in the process.  The Minicons are these pieces of me, and I cannot reawaken until they have been returned._

_"And so, though you are a lower being, I am forced to rely on you to be my body on Cybertron.  You shall not be laid to rest until I am awakened once again."_

"So I hunt down the Minicons and bring them to you, and then I die."

_"Yes."_

"And if I _don't_ do that?"

_"Then you shall suffer eternal torment at my hands, forever undying._

Sideways definitely didn't like the sound of that.  Crossing Unicron hadn't been on his to-do list anyway, but he didn't much fancy the idea of a scavenger hunt, least of all one that would end in his death.  He still wanted to live.  There was so much he'd never had the chance to do.

_"It will not be so quick as it sounds.  My fragments were scattered far across space.  You will need to travel beyond Cybertron to retrieve them all."_

Travel beyond Cybertron?  No easy feat for a mech who had never left the planet.  _Most_ mechs didn't.  Space travel was expensive and dangerous, a technology that had been greatly lost due to a lack of need.  How was he supposed to accomplish this?

_"All in good time, my Herald.  Unicron is patient; he plans.  And there are other requirements.  But we will speak of them later.  For now, you rest.  There is much yet in store for you."_

And then there was silence.  Sideways could still feel Unicron, somewhere deep in the spark he no longer had, but his presence was far away, inaccessible, and with it, all of the amazing powers that came with.  Sideways was left little more than the mech he'd been before, albeit trading in a spark for a better face.  Probably not worth it.

But with Unicron's absence came a new presence – whispers in his audials.  His Minicons.

 _"Go home,"_ they said in unison.  _"Go to sleep."_

" _Tomorrow, we avenge ourselves," hissed Crosswise._

_"Tomorrow, we begin our new life," droned Rook._

He felt a headache forming.  It looked like he'd still be privy to those too.  _Joy._ Being undead was so far, shaping up to be a real pain.  He shoulda known.  Life had never been kind to him; why would death be any different?

But there was a silver lining, he supposed.

After all, he didn't have to go back to that shitty dead end delivery job.  Who knew?  Maybe dying would allow him to live at long last.  The restrictions for the living no longer applied to him, at least.  He answered to a more powerful, more terrifying boss now than anything the mortal world could offer.  And somehow, with the awakening of Unicron lying on the horizon, making rent or filling his fuel tanks didn't seem quite the issues they'd once been. 

Everything was going to be fine.


End file.
